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One morning I noticed something strange about my girlfriend. She put sugar in her coffee. As far as I remembered, she liked her coffee without sugar, very strong and very bitter. So I walked up to her and asked her, “Hey, how come you put sugar in your coffee?” She looked at me with scrunched eyebrows as if trying to recognize me. Then she said, “But babe…I’ve always put sugar in my coffee.” We stared at each other for a long time, both quite confused, then she awkwardly turned away from me and did not say more. You know what? I thought then. Maybe she did put sugar in her coffee. Maybe I remembered wrong. Or maybe her habits had changed. Either way, it didn’t really matter. It was a minor detail anyway. That night something stranger happened. While in the throes of passionate lovemaking, she said she wanted to try something new. She wanted me to lift her, while she wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. For a moment I looked at her. Then I said, “But we have tried that. Remember? You said your arms hurt.” Those scrunched eyebrows again. Then a mystified look as she slowly said, “I…don’t remember.” I nodded and said, “No issue, let’s try,” as I lifted her. And what do you know? Not only did her arms not hurt, but after we had finished and lay side by side, I courteously thanked her for the best sex I had had in my entire life. “You’re welcome,” she said and turned away from me and went to sleep. If these two developments were strange, I let it be. People changed, times changed. And I will admit, change was welcome. You see I and my girlfriend had been together for too long now—I don’t remember exactly how long, but far too long. And with change had set in that old sense of familiarity, of dullness.  So a sense of newness, of freshness, was welcome.  In fact, our whole relationship felt fresh. Our sex was so much better all of a sudden, whereas previously it had become perfunctory. Often now we lay in bed with glasses of wine and talked into the night, whereas previously we had often gone days like indifferent flatmates. And I noticed things anew about her—the way she clutched her stomach and laughed with her entire body, the way she twirled her hair around her index finger and listened intently, the way she got excited over small things like cat videos, a new dress, or a catchy song she discovered on Spotify. It was like falling in love all over again! Lying against my chest in bed, running her hand across my cheek, she told me as well, “You’ve changed.” “Have I?” I responded. “Yes.” “For the better, I hope?” She laughed a little and bit my shoulder. But alas, good things never last. For one day, early in the morning, when I was working on my laptop, she walked up to my desk with a coffee in hand and said, “So when are your holidays ending?” I stopped working, looked at her and said I didn’t understand. She repeated the question. I said, “What holidays?” “The holidays from work.” “What holidays from what work?” “The break you took? From work? That’s why you’re sitting around the house aren’t you?” I told her that I was sitting around the house because I worked from home. That I was a freelance writer. I showed her my laptop, the article I was writing about flesh-eating bacteria for a science website. For a moment she didn’t say anything. Then slowly, she turned around and walked into her room. I shrugged and went back to writing my article, thinking this was just one more example of her newly acquired strangeness. That afternoon, while I was lying in bed, she came and lay down beside me and said she had a few questions.  “Ask away,” I said. “What is your height?” “5’9.” “What is your favourite beer?” “Bira White.” “What is your favourite quote?” “Live. Laugh. Love.” For a moment she contemplated my responses and then said they were all wrong. That my height should be 5’10, my favourite beer should be Budweiser, and my favourite quote should be ‘Everything happens for a reason.’ I laughed heartily and told her that the heart wants what it wants. “Very true,” she replied and turned away from me. I stared at the back of her head, perturbed. When I woke up in the evening, her side was empty. She was gone. I called her again and again, but she didn’t answer my phone.  Oh dear, I thought then.  Am I but a feather in the wind? The vicissitudes of love being the wind; I being the feather? I could have gone on and on pondering these strange vicissitudes, but decided not to mope around and, as hard as it would be, to move on. I put all my energies into my thriving career. I took on more work, more projects and drowned myself in my writing. The article I wrote on flesh-eating bacteria had been aptly terrifying and hence very popular and the science website loved how much online traffic there was on the piece. So I suggested that for my next piece, I would focus on rabies. They agreed and as part of my research, I decided to go out on the streets in search of a rabid animal. I picked the lanes of the Green Park market for this endeavor but unfortunately, my labour was fruitless since I did not encounter a single animal with rabies anywhere—so much for being the rabies capital of the world I guess… But I did encounter something else. Something infinitely sadder. I encountered her.  The abandoner. The heartbreaker.  And, to my dismay, she was sitting on a bench with another man, holding his hand. I watched them from a distance. They were staring straight ahead, not saying much to each other. Then she turned to him and murmured something and got up and went into a café to use the bathroom. While she was gone, I watched him. He was rather plain-faced, like a shaved potato with eyes and mouth. I try hard and yet can no longer remember his face. But as I watched him, a thought struck me. I went and sat down beside him and said, “Can I ask you a few questions?” “Yes surely,” he replied. “What’s your height?”  “5’10,” he said. “What’s your favourite beer?” “Budweiser.” “What’s your favourite quote?” “Everything happens for a reason.” And while I sat there, confused, this man held my hand and said, “Let’s go babe.”  “I’m sorry, you’ve confused me for someone else,” I said and got up. He looked at me for a long time, then shook his head and apologized for the mix-up. When I got home that evening I was a little confused. Something strange had happened, I could tell. ying in bed and contemplating what had occurred and also the strange vicissitudes of life, I realised that I really liked this word— vicissitudes. I liked its sibilant sound, its way of seeming so epic and grand.  So I started listing other words that I really liked. I liked stratagem, guacamole, trounce, hullabaloo, brouhaha, vermicular, maelstrom, kumquats, pachyde- The doorbell rang. I went and opened the door to see a girl standing on the steps with a travel bag, grinning at me. She stepped in and kissed me on the cheek and said, “Aren’t you going to ask me how my trip was?” “…how was your trip?” “So fun!” she said as she tossed her jacket on the table and crashed on the sofa. “Can you make me a coffee?” she asked. “I’m sooooooo tired.” “Uhh…how do you take it?” She looked at me in confusion. “You know this babe. Remember? Without sugar?” That night the sex was also unremarkable. It all felt very milquetoast now since her arms hurt from doing that position I enjoyed. Later when she fell asleep, there was a small smile on her face, while I looked out the window at the night sky and thought deep thoughts. The next morning, she was very talkative. She made me sit down on the sofa with her and told me about her trip to Landore or Lahore or one of those places, god knows, it was all rather dull. It was something about the first time she’d been on a solo trip and how it had been so liberating and what not. I didn’t know why her hands moved so animatedly, why her speech was so fast, why she seemed so excited to tell me all this stuff.  She even asked me how my article was going. I told her about its success. I told her that for my next article, I was focusing on rabies and she nodded and said, “Good idea.” I informed her of my responsibility as a journalist to tell people about the dangers of the outside world. She nodded, did oohs and aahs to show me she was listening.  But really I just wanted to finish this conversation and go back to writing my article.  The next few days passed crawlingly. For everything she did—the way she sipped her coffee noisily, the way she sang songs out of tune while bathing, the way she overcooked her scrambled eggs in the morning, folded the bedsheet, listened to those Taylor Swift songs on Spotify, leant forward and nodded when I spoke at length—irked me. For, in truth, I missed the one who had broken my heart. With her, every day had unraveled like a mystery, a wonderful surprise, like breakfast in bed! She seemed completely unaware of this of course. Instead, she clung to me every day with the same excitement, the same vigour. Somehow, that made things worse. And so one day, without knowing where I was going, where I would rest, I just stepped out.  I walked the earth. I walked through apartment complexes, city streets, shopping malls, and restaurants. The whole world seemed but a parade of couples—in love, in anger, in bitterness, in misery. I saw an old couple holding hands and walking down the road with sweet smiles on their faces. I saw a young couple making out in a park after dark. I saw a couple sitting in a restaurant staring at their meal, not talking to each other. I saw a man get down on his knees and present another man with a diamond ring in a library. I saw a couple dancing softly to music through their apartment window. And I thought of this thing that either my father had told me or I had read somewhere or watched in a film: God has made someone for everyone. Except for me of course, I sighed When would my turn come, I wondered, lost in thought, as I entered another apartment complex. Would I feel the jitterbugs of love again? Would I ever settle? Or would I keep floating about from person to person? I heard a voice then. A woman, shouting, “Babe! Honey! Sweetheart!” continuously from inside her house. I walked up to her flat and saw the front door open. I entered to the sight of her standing in the kitchen with hands on her waist. She looked at me and said, “Where have you been?!” “I…” “Did you bring the groceries?” For a moment I was quiet. Then I said, “No, sorry babe.” She sighed. “You never bring the groceries.” I walked up to her, held her in my arms and said, “I’m so sorry. Next time I’ll definitely bring the groceries.” “Promise?” she said. “Promise.”  And then I hugged her. Through the window I saw a man walking up to the front door with a packet of bread and fruits in hand. I quickly broke away from her and walked up to the door.  “Can I help you?” I asked as he was entering. The man looked at me for a while and then said, “I…uhh…live here?” I gave him my warmest smile and said, “I’m sorry, there must be some confusion, you see I live here.”  He looked at me for a long time.  He looked at the flat for a long time.  Then he shook his head and turned around and wandered away in confusion. *** Things are going so well with her.  We wake up in the morning and make a delicious and homely breakfast of eggs and coffee and pancakes. In the afternoon we fall asleep in each other’s arms and in the evening we cook dinner while her wonderful collection of old ghazals—she loves ghazals! —plays in the background. We eat dinner on the couch, watching a film, our shoulders touching. And after dinner, as we continue watching the film, she will rest her head on my shoulder and doze off. Sitting there, smelling her coconutty hair, her hand in mine, sometimes I feel that this is all I want from life. Isn’t it wonderful? The newness of that intimacy, of another person whom you desire, that wondrous time of getting to know each other? Sometimes when we go on walks in the colony we will see her ex, wandering about with groceries in hand, still looking for his home. There is a lost look on his face. Poor guy. I wish I could help him. But thankfully she doesn’t even notice him and we walk past him every time. She likes to take me to the garden in the colony. There, amidst children playing and old couples on their evening walks, we will open our picnic basket and sit on the grass and have cucumber sandwiches and discuss which couple we’ll look like when we’re older. She says I’ll look like one of those aging professors, those austere and solemn types. I tell her she’ll look like one of those older celebrities, the ones who carry themselves with poise and grace. We laugh as we imagine ourselves coming to the same park for our evening walks. Probably be like that couple strolling and meandering at their own leisurely pace. And then we will get up and walk back, holding hands.  We will cross her ex again. But to her, he remains a stranger. One night while asleep in bed with her I have a strange dream. In it, I see a feather swirling and twirling in the air. I stand and watch it while the wind pushes against my body. I then feel the wind subside and the feather make its slow, undulating way towards me. I cup my palms to catch it.  How long do we go on? Months?  Weeks? It feels like this is the longest I have ever been in a relationship and yet we seem to be going strong. One day, while sitting with her on the sofa and staring out the window, I have this strange feeling that I don’t want to get up from here ever. That I want to stay here, with her, all my life. I realize that I have had it, floating from one person to another, that this is my permanent resting place. I don’t know where this feeling comes from, why it arrives, and whether it will stay. But I think it will stay. I feel it will stay. I feel too within me a strange churning. And I don’t know why I say it, what makes me say it, but I get down on one knee and with outstretched arms ask her: “Will you marry me?” She looks at me with raised eyebrows. I am as surprised as she isthat I have said what I said. When she realizes I am serious, I see a sudden nervousness fall upon her face. She gets up and begins pacing the room frantically and says, “I…don’t know…I think…” I get up and say that she doesn’t have to decide now, that she can think about it, that any answer is okay, that she shouldn’t feel pressured to make a decision and so on. She sits down again and nods. For a moment we are silent as I await her response.  Then, with an air so much calmer, so much more measured, and with an unwavering coolness, she says, “Yes, I will marry you.” I jump up and dance around in joy. She smiles at me and asks me to sit down again and in excitement I tell her that we should tell all our friends and we should start planning already and we should call our parents and- She raises her hand to stop me. She says, “What do you want for breakfast?” “Breakfast?” “Yes. I don’t know, I feel hungry all of a sudden.” I shrug. “I feel like pancakes!” she says. “Okay!” “Pancakes it is!” she says and gets up from the sofa and makes her way to the kitchen. I hear the sound of utensils, of a stove being lit, and I ease into the sofa and make myself comfortable. I feel a soft current running through my body. A strange nervous excitement that makes me float above everything. I feel like- “Babe,” she says from the kitchen. “Yes?” I hear a large sigh. “I think we’re out of milk and eggs.”  “Oh.” “Will you go out and get some?” “Of course I will!” I say and get up.  “Cool.”  “Be back in five minutes.”  As I make my way out of the house with a bag in hand, I try to return to my chain of thoughts. What was I thinking? For the life of me I can’t remember, my mind’s all over the place. It also doesn’t help that I am distracted. First by the ex—still holding on to his groceries, still adrift on the road, mouth open in a daze—and then, as I step out of the colony, as I make my way towards the grocery store, by the others.  How did I not notice them while entering the complex? For I am confronted by them. By so many of them. By hordes of them. Men and women on the road, with groceries in hand, lumbering about. They moan and they groan and I watch them, perturbed.  Suddenly, I feel a hand grab my shoulder. A woman, gaunt, toothless, ragged. “Good sir…can you help me find my home…” she croaks into my face. I walk away. “Good sir…pleeeeeease…” I ignore her and keep moving, keep watching. I watch the dazed look on their faces. The upwards stare, the entreaty in their eyes, the shuffling of their feet. They are so thin, so malnourished. Who knows how long they’ve been carrying these groceries? Who knows how heavy they must feel?  Dammit! What a bummer to stumble upon them on such a happy occasion! I need to distract myself. So I think of the warm pancakes that await me. Her smiling face. Our wedding. And as I reach the store, I start to feel better. So I turn and look at them once more, these sad little people, this little zombie herd. And I feel so thankful I am not like one of them, that unlike this swarm I have a home, a resting place that—after I get milk and eggs for my one little love—I will immediately be marching back to! Abhishek Basak is a writer and theatre actor based in Delhi, India. His short stories have been longlisted twice for the Toto Creative Writing Award and have been featured in the Fountain Ink Magazine, Gulmohar Quarterly, and MeanPepperVine.

Broadcasting from the End of the World   ​​​​​​1. “America loves to repeat its mistakes — one half the world drowns while the other celebrates— reveling in their victory cries — (so-called “Christians” do the least “Christian” things) — god save us from the grave they pave for us — Stars and Stripes with specks of blood — red dunce cap of the narcissistic sexist racist zombie(s) enslave us— the 34-time-convicted felon leads his fellow inmates to take over the asylum — January 6th, Part Two – dismantling the system of education that gives the ever-hungry mind a chance to escape the shackles it was born into – (so-called “Christians” do the least “Christian” things)-- we’re all bodies cuffed to one another – cows in the slaughterhouse whose brains have been deliberately softened by social media, Faux (Fox) news, an algorithmic echo chamber that only allows others to confirm what they already believe – so that we don’t realize what danger we are in –  its the stunting and the stunning of the human cattle– the shot to the brain before we’re suspended, dangling, bleeding – the dehiding and evisceration might’ve already taken place – (so-called “Christians” do the least “Christian” things)-- and who will speak for the innocent animals thrown into this situation? – our voice (box) is already being removed – heart-like, it will quiver, spurt out a few drops of blood, and die with its knuckles raised in a faint-like fashion over its head a few moments later with the words ‘Why me?’ stamped in red ink on its permanently blue, immobile lips– America loves to repeat its mistakes.”   ​​​​​2.   He would broadcast daily from the end of the world – much as he did decades before the 34-time-convicted felon took over – to those who didn’t know they were already enslaved – those force fed “Christian”, Nationalistic doctrines, propaganda they accepted with an idle bob of the head – through speakers culminated from his fingertips – words, songs utilizing the quiet melody of the page – via the most secretive yet immediate PA system – the mind – and, though some understood and related to his message (especially the more understanding, open-minded, marginalized souls), it was lost on the less innocent animals who were herded, couldn’t leave through poor wages and a sense of “American exceptionalism”, “patriotic duty”, and various other pride-instilling nonsense terms that had been hand printed on the gray matter of their unquestioning brains since birth – and, though this was his prediction, he still broadcast every day from the end of the world – hoping his fingers gracefully weaving threads on computer keyboards – frantically fuming truth – pen dancing across the page with a straightforwardness that demanded attention from even the least concerned onlooker– would be the antidote for the shot to the brain – the green slime serum – that have left us all so stunted and stunned – two times over – America loves to repeat its mistakes.   ​​   ​​​​​3.   “In today’s news, one half of the world drowned while the other celebrated,” he reported. “So called ‘Christians’ do the least ‘Christian’ things.” (It's All) Too Much, But Not Enough feet arched in painful sidestep, a sweeping, lifelong misstep, across the same cracked concrete Dollar General entrance walkway i walked over in my teens, feeling like life was too much, my worry won’t go away i walked over in my 20’s, feeling like life was too much, my worry won’t go away i walked over in my 30’s, and now into my 40’s, feeling like life is too much, my worry won’t go away   and i have a sick child at home and i still must find the will to write today and the leaves need mowed and raked, several days of effort itself, before the winter snows come   and i’m behind on all my bills and i’m worried that I won’t have enough gas to get me to my next payday, which is two whole days from now   and i’m worried that I won’t be able to get my kids to their daily barn stops and to their dance classes because of this lack of gas, lack of motivation, lack of money, lack of self-esteem, lack of success in both my day and in my daydream jobs   and i’m worried that i’m too boring, too ugly, too one-note, too quiet, too introverted   i’m too much, but not enough   and i’m worried about missing a movie i’m planning on seeing tonight because of lack of money, lack of time   (even petty, temporary worries stab the heart hard with frantic fervor)   and i’m worried that my writing will continue to get ignored and i’m worried that publishers and literary contests will continue to do the same with my eagerly submitted verses, tales, manuscripts   and i’m worried that the writing i’ve dedicated my life to is just another hollow sham that won’t expose itself as such until there is little life left in me — if these endless worries are really life at all—   and i’m worried that my voice is fading, irrelevant, inconsequential—   i’m too much, but not enough   (even petty, temporary worries stab the heart hard with frantic fervor)   and i’m worried about inflation— affording the rising, unaffordable price of everything   (i can’t even afford the gas to get me to work to pay for the gas to get me to work)   and i’m worried about people becoming evermore hostile, vulgar, loud, and self-absorbed   and what that says about where we are all headed   and i’m worried about not having enough money for Christmas, for my daughters’ after school activities, and having enough time off work for family holiday gatherings   (i know i can’t afford either)   and i’m worried about the recent presidential election, a nation once again trumped, and what it says about what really lurks in the hearts of mankind   and what that says about where we are all headed   and i’m worried about my job trying to target me with unnecessary write ups for things i didn’t do   and that my supervisors are trying to either fire me or get me to quit, regardless of the many years i have there under my belt and the many tasks i simultaneously pull off every day there   and i’m worried   and i’m tired   and i’m tired of being worried   just as i always have been when i make these early morning, 8 a.m. Dollar General trips   and as i find myself again walking over this familiar cracked concrete with the same familiar, cracked worries, concrete thoughts   (“i’m too much, but not enough”)   just as i was when i was at this place, thinking the same thoughts, going through the same motions in my teens, 20’s, 30’s, and now into my 40’s   feet arched in painful sidestep   a sweeping, lifelong misstep   (even petty, temporary worries stab the heart hard with frantic fervor)   i’m too much, but not enough. Andrew Buckner is a multi award-winning poet, filmmaker, and screenwriter. His short dark comedy/horror script  Dead Air!  won Best Original Screenwriter at the fourth edition of The Hitchcock Awards.  Also a noted critic, author, actor, and experimental musician, Buckner runs and writes for the review site AWordofDreams.com .

It was a box, and who had three thousand bucks to spend on a box? Her daddy would have said, just wrap me in a bedsheet and drop me in a hole . All the same, Julie let herself be led around the burgundy-carpeted showroom, pretending to consider all the choices and options. The Oxford, the Wellington, the Legacy, the Elite. Stainless steel and bronze, fine hardwoods in oak, mahogany, and cherry, overhead lights positioned to make the polished wood glow. It was a box. Yet the lock and rubber gasket seal of the Oxford caught her eye. She thought of a coffin she’d seen unearthed after Katrina—so small, it must have held a child, perched sad and surreal on a pile of debris not far from what was once the Biloxi Beach Arcade. Half-open and rusted through in that mess of lumber and moldy insulation and raw poultry strewn from shipping containers tossed around like Coke cans by the thirty-foot wall of water.  “Did you have anything in particular in mind for your dad?” The tone of the funeral director’s assistant was practiced, reverential. There were more questions—full couch or half couch, meaning a one-piece or two-piece lid.  “Half,” Julie said. She glanced down at the FTC-mandated casket price list she’d been given in advance. “But I was thinking of something, you know,” she paused, “simpler.” “Oh sure, sure. Absolutely. No problem at all. Why don’t we take a look at our, um, particleboard line?” The gray-suited man indicated a small, adjoining space, off the main showroom floor. “Less expensive but just as elegant. Any one of them would make a fine resting place for Mr. Malavich.” “Maravich.” “Maravich, sorry. Slip of the tongue.” That slip of the tongue irritated Julie, maybe more than it should. But then she’d pulled an overnight shift at the casino. Her eyes burned, and her head was starting to throb. For eight hours, she’d stared at a video monitor—not to catch gamblers cheating but employees thieving. Kitchen help and servers, mainly women, wrapping a muffaletta or calzone in a napkin and stuffing it in their bag for hungry kids at home, a violation of policy she could never bring herself to report. She was hungry herself, and the background muzak was a little too loud, a melody she recognized from a cheesy eighties song her Aunt Becky used to like, “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” Suddenly, fiercely, she wanted to get it over with and leave. They took one step down to the smaller room, with a lower ceiling and tan carpet. On a platform in the center of the room sat one casket, two others racked against the back wall.  “Now, the Hampton,” said the man, running his hand along the beige quilted lining, “is our most popular model in this price range. Real strong, real sturdy.” But after the word sturdy, he seemed to run out of things to say and stepped back, waiting, his palms together in a gesture that seemed vaguely spiritual. Randomly, Julie wondered if anybody ever asked to lie down in them, try them out. Not that she planned to be the first. She walked all around the platformed box, if only to make it seem as though price were not the only consideration. The dark wood veneer, lifting at one corner, reminded her of a folding card table she’d bought years ago at Dollar General. The thing wobbled like it was knee-walking drunk if you so much as rested an elbow on it. And the Hampton emitted a faint odor—a gluey, chemical, headachy smell like the FEMA trailer the two of them had lived in for months after the hurricane. No matter how they aired the place out, they never did get rid of that smell. The handles, three on each side, were shiny and gold-colored, like a cheap bathroom faucet.  Still, it was the obvious choice. The small life insurance policy would only cover about half the expenses. Cremation would have been the cheapest option, but her daddy was old-school Catholic and believed in the bodily resurrection, unswayed by arguments about early saints drawn and quartered, boiled in oil, devoured by lions, baptized believers pulverized on fields of battle.  She scanned the price list sheet, which listed the Hampton at $650. “$650’s the total cost for this one?” “Yes ma’am, that’s the total, tax included. But without the commemorative head panel.” By which Julie assumed he must mean the praying hands and “In God’s Care” inscription on the inside of the lid.  “And with a polyester overlay, not satin, like the display model. And no memory drawer, but of course, you can put whatever you want in the bed with your dad. Pictures, letters, fishing rods, pool cues. Just yesterday we buried a lady with a po boy and a Bud Lite.” She walked all around the thing once more. She opened her mouth to say she would take it, that it would work just fine, because of course, it would. But in the same instant, she pictured her daddy lying right there in the casket, not three feet from where she stood. In one of the prized black or navy tailored suits, the only luxuries the man had ever allowed himself. She saw the beaklike nose and age-cratered face, the hands stiffly folded. The worn brown rosary beads draped over those permanently gnarled fingers from all the years of shrimping and trawl repair and odd jobs in the off-season. She saw the smile-shaped scar on his right jaw, a souvenir from the time he’d had one too many and hurled a flowerpot through the living room window in a fit of rage at Julie’s stepmom.  And the leg, of course. She saw that, too. Amputated above the right knee because nobody at the nursing home cared enough, or had time enough, to keep up with the blood sugar checks. They were easy to do and required no medical training. You could buy a kit over the counter at Walgreens, prick the pointer finger with a pen-shaped reader that displayed a number in seconds on a small digital screen. She could have helped with that, could have bugged the nurses about it, or gone there and checked it herself. But not from the TV room of the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility, 12 months of her life wasted on a charge of simple possession. The day they released her, she’d had her cousin drive her straight down to the nursing home. Stopping at the front desk for her visitor’s badge, walking down the polished tile corridor, pausing outside the door to his room, she’d tried to steel herself. But it was all she could do not to weep when he saw the stump outlined under the sheet.  I’ll take this one. The words were on her lips. But there was a place inside her, one she had no name for, somewhere between her heart and stomach. And in this place she had no name for, she felt a twisting, an actual physical sensation, like hands wringing out a dishrag, and goddamn it. She couldn’t do it.  Instead, she raised her arm and pointed. She heard herself say, “I’ll take that one,” meaning the most beautiful box she’d ever seen. A gleaming, sky-blue limo of a box. A stainless-steel casket with brushed nickel hardware, a plush velvet lining so white it hurt her eyes, and a lock and seal—the Oxford. The man raised his eyebrows in surprise but quickly complimented Julie’s taste. The Oxford was his personal favorite, he said, and what a wonderful tribute to her dad. Now, if Julie would just follow him to the office, they’d enter the order so warehouse could get the ball rolling. In the office, she sank into a soft wing chair and sipped complimentary coffee while the man sat behind a massive desk, tapping a laptop keyboard and peering through his bifocals at the screen. When he was done, Julie pulled out her wallet and credit card, only hesitating a moment, running the pad of her thumb back and forth over the raised numbers. Then she handed it over. Walking out through the parking lot, she smelled the rain that was forecast, coming in from the Gulf. The wind was starting to pick up, and she knew there’d be whitecaps dotting the Sound. She slid into the Cavalier, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine caught on the second try. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Her phone vibrated in her purse, and she silenced it, knowing it was Heather, calling on her break to check in. She’d wanted to come but hadn’t been able to take off work. It would be a problem for Heather, spending money they didn’t have on a casket they didn’t need. Already she could feel her disapproval, hear her voice saying they’d never get out of debt at this rate and they might as well forget either of them going back to school anytime soon. And she was right. Julie could never justify the foolish purchase. What could she possibly say? She didn’t know. But maybe the simplest explanation was the best. A Dollar General casket wouldn’t go with the suit. In death, as in life, her daddy was a sharp-dressed man.  Amelia Franz's fiction and non-fiction have appeared in Image Journal, Reckon Review, Hippocampus Magazine, Prime Number Magazine, Peatsmoke Journal, and other literary magazines. "Sharp Dressed Man" is part of a work-in-progress--a story collection set in the Gulf Coast town of Biloxi, Mississippi, near where she grew up.

I scanned through my binoculars, thinking I was alone until I saw a man peering back at me through his own. I had been spotted. The ornithology lab sent a rare bird sighting alert: an Inca Dove in the botanical gardens a couple of hours prior to my trip. Never having seen one, I stuffed sunflower seeds in my trench coat and sped over, with my unique obsession. She had somehow traveled out of her range on the coldest day of the year, which just so happened to be my day off work, a Tuesday. I just knew she would be hiding by the pond, but she wasn’t alone, as I had expected. The pond was the perfect place for her to hunker, as many birds had over the years. I couldn’t go down there, alone, because being alone with men had never gone well for me in the past. Damn him.  Livid that I couldn’t go birdwatching without a chaperone, I simmered near the exit gate, where I felt safer. I was determined to wait him out, but the wind pricked my face like a woodpecker with a needled beak for over an hour.  I lost hope when the man slid a sandwich out from his backpack. He stood up and started walking but left his backpack on the bench. Damn him . Then, I realized he was walking toward me, sandwich in hand. I froze in place. He peered past me as if he were hypnotized. I thought he might have been medicated or on the spectrum, like me. I wanted to run out screaming, but his steps were as soft as a baby crawling. He didn’t speak, but his icy breath hung in the grates of the gate a few feet away from me. He pointed his leather glove to the lattice about ten yards from where I had been standing the whole time. There she was: the dove was puffed up and exposed to the blustery wind.  I thanked him with the realization that he might have been the one who reported the sighting. At the very least, he knew about Inca Doves and was the kind of person who would endure the elements and prepare a lunch to ensure he saw one. I felt guilty for assuming the worst of him. We shared a unique obsession, if not more. He turned away and walked back to the pond, eating his sandwich, while I stayed behind and lobbed sunflower seeds toward her. She eyed me like I was a predator: a hawk, or hunter. I sifted the seeds from my pockets into a mound near the ground cover and hoped it would shield her from the wind and actual predators. I left her to fuel up for the night or make it to her next stop, then looked over my shoulder all the way home.

Sometimes Billy is an Elephant. Sometimes not. When Billy is an elephant, he is trunk and tusk and floppy ears, and he never forgets that he loves me. Today he is not an elephant. I can tell by the splash of cologne wafting from his neck as he sits down to breakfast. A dab of  Dior Sauvage  he knows I don’t like, that I prefer his usual flat gray scent. The cologne is light, but it fills the room above the scrambled eggs. I’ll be working late tonight , he says. He reaches for the salt even though he knows how I hate it when he puts salt on whatever I am serving. Like it needs more flavor. Like  I need more flavor. I come from a family of no flavor and that’s just fine with me. My mother, a faded housedress and my father, the remote in his hand. Nothing different from day to day and they lasted 40 years. When I met Billy, he reminded me of an elephant I had seen once at the city zoo. Billy was plod and lumber and so I assume he’d be a bland, saltless taste on my tongue. I ask Billy what is keeping him so late these days and he acts like he doesn’t remember. Oh, the usual stuff , he says, but lots of it . I try not to look at Billy’s ear, where the corner is missing from when the last woman’s husband sliced it off because he caught her in bed with Billy. I think how if Billy had been an elephant that time, if it had been one of those times he remembered he loved me, his ears would have been big enough, strong enough to flap that woman’s husband away, or better yet, the woman.  So, when Billy reaches across the table, I think for a second that he might be going to stroke my hair, say something like, I have to work late, but don’t forget I love you. But the part of me that is an elephant, the kind that remembers everything, knows better. That, in fact, he is just reaching for more salt. Francine Witte’s flash fiction and poetry have appeared in numerous journals. Most recently, her stories have been in Best Small Fictions and Flash Fiction America. Her latest flash fiction book is RADIO WATER (Roadside Press.) Her upcoming collection of poetry, Some Distant Pin of Light  is forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press. She lives in NYC.

“I don’t get it,” she said, and shot him a puzzled look as she dropped the notebook between them on the sofa. It was his notebook. His journal, actually. Or so he called it. It had a glossy black leather cover and sturdy, lined pages to capture his musings. A serious writer needs a serious journal, he’d told her, and this was his. But all she saw was a fancy notebook, and now it straddled the sections of the sofa between them. “What do you mean?” he said. “That story,” she said. “I don’t get it.” She shifted, drawing one leg under her and facing him. “I mean, I don’t get the point of it.” He smiled. “Well, that’s the thing, see. It really doesn’t have a point.” He laughed a little and added, “That’s kind of the point.” She chuckled faintly, stifling a smirk as she brushed her hair from her face. “Then how can it be a story?” “Does every story have to have a point?” He leaned slightly away from her. “I think so. I mean, doesn’t every story sort of have an ending?” “Of course every story has an ending,” he said. He tried to keep his voice steady but felt it grow prickly. “A beginning, a middle, and an ending. That’s how it works for every story. And mine has an ending.” “Does it?” “What do you mean, ‘Does it?’ Yes!” He felt his face warm, and he worried it was turning blotchy and pink, the way it did when he became frustrated. He bit his lower lip and turned away from her. “Okay, okay,” she said. She reached a hand to his shoulder, kneading it, pressing into the tension. “Honey, I’m only trying to help.” He sighed and leaned into her. She massaged with both hands now, plowing her fingers into his shoulder muscles. “I know you are,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to read it. It’s a stupid story anyway.” “Now stop that,” she said. “It isn’t a stupid story. It’s just – ” “Just what?” He pulled away, turned to face her. “It’s just that I don’t get it; that’s all,” she said. “Maybe I’m the stupid one since I don’t get it.” A smirk escaped his face. “What,” she said. “Why are you smirking?” “Smirking?” he said. “I’m not smirking.” “You are too smirking!” “Why would I be smirking?” The corners of his lips twitched upward, even as he tried to will them to stay straight. “You think I’m stupid,” she said, and stood up. “No,” he said. “No, you’re not stupid. Honey.” “You know what’s stupid?” She picked up the journal from the sofa and shook it at him. “This! This little notebook of yours.” “Journal,” he corrected. She ignored him and went on. “This little notebook you’re always carrying around with you. Everywhere we go, you take your precious notebook, your –”  “It’s a journal !” “This – this whatever .” She flung the journal across the room. It struck his framed Jack Kerouac poster. He looked up at her, horrified. “I want to break up,” she said, folding her arms. “Break up?” “Yes. I want to break up with you.” “Why?” “No reason,” she said. “I just do.”  “Honey,” he said. “Why are you doing this?” “Besides,” she said, “not everything has to have a point, right?” Andrew Careaga is a writer living in the Missouri Ozarks. His fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction have appeared or are forthcoming in Fan, Southwinds, Paragraph Planet, Red String, Bulb Culture Collective, Club Plum Literary Journal, Periwinkle Pelican, Roi Fainéant, Syncopation Literary Journal, Spillwords  and Witcraft . He writes about the craft of writing and other topics at andrewcareaga.com . Find him on X/Twitter, Threads, and Instagram at @andrewcareaga

When the golf tournament in Sowetos’ slum started, no one thought it was real. It was a joke, a rumor, and a puff of smoke out of Johannesburg. Nobody believed that neighborhood boy Tiff Elanga could have hopped the fences in the night, run twelve kilometers, entered Constantia Kloof, climbed the walls, jumped the hedges, sneaked past the guards, and somehow gotten into Judge Makemba's estate and stolen his golf clubs. And then run back again, home to the slum. A straight suicide mission. But it was true. The seven iron shone in his hand, and on his return his friends saw not Tiff, but in him, some young lionheart. When they looked at him they believed. “Where? Where in Soweto? You can’t play golf there! It's impossible!” shouted astonished, frustrated, and disbelieving voices from further away that wanted to believe, but could not seem to. The harsh voices that cut through the roosters' crows belonged to distant neighbors and others who rolled their eyes at the thought of someone in Soweto teeing up. But in secret, more than a few wished that they were Tiff Elanga. And had they actually seen the boys and girls climbing the shantytown metal roofs to play eighteen holes, they would have felt warm inside, regardless of their sour grimaces. But they didn’t see it. Be that as it may, the boys and girls, not caring anymore about yesterday’s social conventions, the chores and the rules of mother and father, jumped the roofs and looked over the course as the sun rose over Jozi, The City of Gold. The smaller children carried the clubs like rifles while the older ones drew up the holes in live debate. Any player from Windsor or anywhere in Berkshire would have declared that the game was butchered in all its aspects. But if you asked the players in Soweto, they were doing alright . When they took the clubs in their hands, they felt strong. The pegs however could not be made to stand up on the roofs so they simply kept them in their pockets, as talismans. Some of those who kept a peg after the tournament would look at it years afterwards, and remember. The holes were somewhere in the distance. Not actual holes, but doors to smaller shacks. Tiff and the others had never played golf or seen a real golf course, but they knew what to do. Because when enough is enough and the weekend is all work, errands, a lack of money and electricity, the time comes to rouse the troops. Meaning their siblings and friends.  Of course the succession of loud and unruly children with clubs irritated the closest neighbors who awakened with peppery eyes and bad tempers. But even if the slum’s residents’ spouted mean words at the boys and girls that day, they still remained its children in the evening. Mothers and fathers did not punish too harshly. They hugged and kissed them good night as all the nights before. Most people understood that the children had to play. The way themselves one time long ago had to run through Soweto with sticks in their hands, laughing and scaring the chickens. They startled the elders and bolted through the alleys where mother and father and uncle worked, smoked, or cooked. They had to run and kick up dust that lingered in the sunlight as if their futures depended on it. The cursing older generation understood that, too. Because when they were young, they too had snuck out and smashed the bottles and played their own games. These outbursts when freedom called in a clear voice and was heard by many, came seldom and quickly, lasted briefly, and passed swiftly. It was all a tapestry of the mind and of many generations, but it was not overly dissected. When a game is beyond points and rules and winners and losers, but a manifestation of something bigger, then it is a venture not too frowned upon when it is through. It is borne out of hope in a harsh world. The Soweto Tournament saw pricey golf balls bounce towards tin walls with loud bangs that made dwellers wake up in shock. But in those bangs the player's frustrations and aspirations were finally delivered, the steel spring was released and a spirit awakened in the young heart. One which had to last a lifetime, or at least a working life. It was the jump over the fire and the starting shot saying that the world was not all old and spent. Not for the one who tried to reach beyond the shell or beyond Soweto, into that cloudy mist of wheels and colors where the world might end. But where it might begin too. That was what the Soweto Tournament became on that early Saturday morning. But since something like it occurred seldom in those parts, it was rumored to have been taken for a joke, ruse, or hearsay by some. That did not matter to Tiff Elanga, who had jumped the hedges, skinned his knees, eluded the guard dogs and picked the lock to get the golf bag. He saw no quarrels with adults' sneers and disbelief in the tournament as he climbed onto the first roof to play the first hole. Because the wind was at his back and the young ones were watching him with hope in their eyes. His people. Tiff dropped the ball on the corrugated metal with a smile. Then he hit it with a clean shot as hard as he could. Robin Herzog is a Swedish writer whose short stories belong to literary fiction, they are often set in the style of magical realism. He lives in Stockholm, Sweden, and has a BA degree in Journalism from Södertörn University. Robin is currently writing a short story collection.

Here Comes That Season  The stones heat up for a brief period. Their cold heart, beginning to add another layer made of leaves, surface even before emerges the evening. The birds invite sleep on the emptying  boughs. Not all will wake up. Some songs will be silent. The water streaming nearby gurgles and spits out a writhing fish. The dark slumber flies across the moon face. A slowed-down rodent creates a feeble noise in our kitchen. The noise bloats up, bursts. Our wares and glass shiver and settle. After The Fiesta Ends I have no inkling to whom and what, albeit I bid adieu to something, whisper, "Ave." During the first few days once the fiesta ends slow mornings fly in, chirp, and five different  chords I can hear, miss innumerable ones. At one point of time the chirrups continue  albeit within a jelly-flood of silence. I cannot fathom those anymore, hear the blue. I dive from the edge of our balcony. On the Hemingway days I drown, fall through the bubbles of thoughts and white noise, reach the bottom and meet the cacophony. Bow those are one, soft, viscid. On the other days I soar, fly too close to the Sun. Although Kushal Poddar has authored ten books, the latest being 'A White Can For The Blind Lane', and his works have been translated into twelve languages, and he has been a sub-editor of Outlook magazine and the editor of Words Surfacing, and he does some illustrations and sketches for various magazines if you ask him, he will say that he gardens a growing up daughter.

Aural Sex Your voice, wraps around me like strong arms holding me tight. My whole body opens to catch each thought as they fall from your lips. Oh those lips! I could drink in your voice and it would sustain me. Pour it over me and make me wet with your words. I don’t want those self-satisfied sexts.  Call me. Surround me with your vocal virility. Call me. Penetrate me aurally. I don’t need promises of love. Just keep talking to me and I’ll keep listening till I’m satisfied. Obsolete Sense Memories One finger to push in the lighter, unlit cigarette in same hand, the click it makes when ready, device popping to attention, the redness of the heated coil, its bright orange center a contained flame, the sharp scent of tobacco, the smoky ash on cooling filament, tapping ashes out the window or brushing them from your jeans. One hand on a cassette, the other holding the wheel, the whir of engagement, guitar solo screeching as it unravels, the tangle of grayish-brown tape drawn out slowly, spun back into place with a pen, the snap of a plastic case, the crunch as it breaks underfoot, reading microscopic liner lyrics or deciphering your writing on a mixtape. Left hand rolls up the window, right hand holding yours, the squeaky back seat with seating for three, embedded seatbelts rarely fished out, the thud as the back seats fold down, the station wagon becomes stationary, the windows fogging in autumn chill, the static audible from the radio, shifting position to move closer and exploring each other for the first time.          Summer’s Color Change I’m Not Her That will never be me Her smile 1000 watts The summer sun Her laughter filling you like a hug Images on a static screen  Collected and fragile Like butterfly wings Her memory caresses like kisses. I struggle to fill the void she left Painfully aware of what I lack A role I was not asked to play I step back to assess the damage. That will never be me I have my own smile  The crescent moon My laughter floating into the sky. Images of myself Insecure and hidden Like insect shadows  My reality falls like tears. Paper Girl Flurry of words brought us together  professing her love in inkjet staccato  or stilted penmanship  honest  raw between sheets of paper so much heat generates. A passionate penpal first-time romance she sent me her soul on eight by eleven but it wasn’t to be fleeting ephemeral when we step off the page once we actually meet boundaries blur desires cool. I keep my Paper Girl  in a collection of memories  to unwrap in old age tender fragile unfold cold brittle parchment where her warm heart still beats. Nina Miller is an Indian-American physician, epee fencer, and creative who made the Wigleaf Top 50 for 2024. She loves writing competitions and drinking chai. Find her flash and thoughts on writing within Flash Fusion, an anthology by Dahlia Books. Find her @NinaMD1 and her published pieces at ninamillerwrites.com .

Bright morning light streamed through the bedroom window, waking Ben from his dream. Sitting up, he rubbed his toes in the plush Berber carpet before standing and slipping on a terrycloth robe. A thin, scratchy yowl greeted him as he walked into the kitchen. He froze. It sounded like Kafka, his beloved seal-point Siamese. He had to be hearing things. Kafka was dead. Back at the old house, stressed by events, Ben had accidentally run over his cat in his driveway. The accident was the final straw for a shaky marriage. His wife had left, taking his daughter, Cathy, from him. Shaking off his malaise, he made coffee and toast and took them out onto his patio. Passing through the sliding French door, he scanned the yard, imagining what he’d do with it one day—and froze. Sitting among the scruffy weeds, amid brown patches of bare dirt and raggedy sunflowers, he saw a small, blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl of about three, maybe four. “Cathy?” he called. It looked like her. Exactly. She was the spitting image of her mother. Except that Cathy was gone and the horrible accident, his own fault, that took her from them also destroyed his marriage. His wife had moved on. So had he. And yet, there she sat, staring at him with a dirty, tear-stained face. Frozen, he stared back and watched as the girl opened her mouth and let out a thin, scratchy yowl. She sounded exactly like Kafka. He stared at the little girl, knowing now that the past moves with you. You couldn’t even leave its sounds behind. Ed Teja is a full-time writer and part-time martial arts instructor. He spent years traveling the world writing, working as a Caribbean boat bum, editing magazines in the US, Hong Kong, and Venezuela, and freelancing an odd assortment of stories, articles, and poems for a rather eclectic assortment of magazines and anthologies. Now he is in rural New Mexico where he writes stories that have little or no respect for genre and take place in one or more of the surreal worlds he lives in (rather happily).

No one - neither friends nor family, the tea leaves, my horoscope nor the lines on my palm - have warned me to avoid you:  the attractive, charismatic, smooth-talking stranger.  Now, I’m completely entranced, following you to your bed in Hamelin, lured by promises of bliss as Mrs. P. Piper

I think that nothing magical can be accidental  I’m desperate for affection and attention and I’m convinced  every symptom’s gonna kill me, I can’t trust lingering instincts or epiphanies, not when my mind’s magical thinking wouldn’t  let me sing “If I Die Young” as a child because I was convinced it would be self-fulfilling and it would kill me, not when my  worries birth worries and I wonder if thinking about my mom’s  death will make it arrive quicker, not when I couldn’t listen to my favorite Hippo Campus song, couldn’t hear the lines  happy Valentine’s Day to you, hope it’s better than mine because my dog’s about to die  without thinking the cosmic irony of the universe would make it happen, I don’t know how to talk to god but in desperate moments I’ve sent wishes upward to dead grandmothers, dead dogs, mostly missing them and  hoping they’re okay, I don’t know how to talk to god or how to believe in something bigger than me, but I’ve been trying, see the energy of the universe in a tarot spread pulled by me and my sister, wear the Magician card on a necklace and my evil eye on my left side to ward off negative energies, try to  believe in coincidences and angel numbers but catch myself when I start spiraling, start thinking that the lyrics in these songs are spells, I don’t know how to talk to god but on bad days where  all my urges push me to drive away, I find myself in the parking lot  of my old church, a place I haven’t prayed in since twelve, and  I think about walking in, I think about kneeling, I think about confessionals and secrets and trying on religion for a spell, I  think about what’s left in this world to nurture me and if I can find it in the eyes of my old pastor, the woman who hasn’t  worked there for years but when I think about godliness kindly I still picture it in her eyes, her soft hands wrinkled over mine, I think about opening my mouth to receive the sacrament  and letting things in that might heal me, and I don’t walk in, I drive away, but I see my most faithful of friends on social  media and I don’t quite feel like I’m missing something but I  wonder about the feeling of being so compelled by someone’s  love, by the warmth of something that feels powerful enough to have made the universe just for you, and I wonder how  much longer I’ll keep searching for my own sense of belonging.  Seussian sonnet for omissions  I thought an uncle would have died by now, my family is riddled with disease on both  sides, death always hanging over me like a curtain to be pulled aside, a shoe to be dropped,  but the real delay is in the waiting, the months after diagnosis when the parents didn’t  tell us anything, me and my sister living blind as if our mother’s cancer wasn’t multiplying  by the second, but who knows, not us, it could’ve been doing anything, living peacefully in  our mother’s breast like we once laid upon it, usurping her good cells like we did for nine  months each, waiting to be popped or chopped out, her skin just waiting for us to be made  so we could scar it. I think often about which parent is going to die first, fathers are  always the first assumption, and he has plenty to worry about, but my mother’s body  has been broken and torn apart so many times I think she’s surviving out of spite  or maybe something softer. I can’t imagine myself at 45, torn apart by grieving them, I never think I’ll live that long, spent time with knives at thirteen like other  emo kids, had nowhere to put this anger, this energy, couldn’t trap or contain it or share  it with anyone because my mouth never learned the shapes of words and how to hold them.  Hallie Fogarty is a poet and artist from Kentucky. She received her MFA in poetry from Miami University, where she was awarded the 2024 Jordan-Goodman Graduate Award for Poetry. Her work has been published in Pegasus, Poetry South, Barzakh Magazine, and elsewhere.